


I mean, you did like oysters

by HazelHare



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Affectionate Bickering, Idiots in Love, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, and affectionate mockery, and aziraphale's response leads to, grey-ace aziraphale, grey-ace crowley, idiots to bickering idiots, in which crowley suggests that they might try that human pastime, ridiculous bickering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-09
Updated: 2019-07-09
Packaged: 2020-06-25 11:30:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19744849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HazelHare/pseuds/HazelHare
Summary: “I was saying, you like oysters now, don’t you?” Crowley waves his hand. “Imagine a life without oysters!”“Oh, dear me, no, that wouldn’t do at all.” He frowns and sits up. “What is this about? Are the oysters at risk?”~In which Crowley tries to suggest to Aziraphale that they might try that human thing some people seem to enjoy, if they can ever stop bickering long enough.





	I mean, you did like oysters

A few bottles of wine into the evening, and Crowley is delighted with how well his plan is going. The new additions to the dinner menu had brought on Aziraphale’s beautiful, beam of sunlight smile; the wine was perfect; and Aziraphale has been resting his hand affectionately on Crowley’s knee on and off for the past eight or nine months. It was time. He was going to ask him.

“Angel?”

“Yes, dear?”

Crowley fumbles his next words, fuzzy from the wine and the ‘dear’.

“You know, the- the thing. The human thing.” He fixed Aziraphale with an unwavering stare. “We should do that thing.”

“W-thing?

Crowley concentrates hard, and sobers up enough to be coherent, but not so much to lose his nerve.

He shakes out his limbs loosely, waggles his fingers, coughs, and starts again.

“Listen! Ok, Angel. Right. So, remember before you had tried oysters?”

A look of horror and unhappiness flits across Aziraphale’s face, and his bottom lip sticks out obstinately.

“No,” he shakes his head mostly side to side, and a little diagonally. “No, no, no, that was bad times. Must have oysters.”

“Oh for h-, for h-, for _my_ sake, please sober up a little. Angel.”

Aziraphale frowns, glances about the room at the empty wine bottles, and reluctantly sobers up. He reaches for a convenient glass of water to take the taste from his mouth.

“Righto. Now, what are you saying about oysters, dear?”

Crowley takes a deep, unnecessary breath.

“I was saying, you like oysters now, don’t you?” Crowley waves his hand. “Imagine a life without oysters!”

“Oh, dear me, no, that wouldn’t do at all.” He frowns and sits up. “What is this about? Are the oysters at risk?”

Crowley rolls his eyes, his entire face, and a few of his limbs for good measure. He strides across to Aziraphale and splays himself effortlessly into the space beside him on the leather sofa.

“Listen. I am trying to ask you something. There are _other things_ , other things that humans like, that you might try. That we might try.”

Crowley studies Aziraphale’s frown intently, and just knows there is a gastronomical question coming if he doesn’t get in quickly enough.

“I mean, things humans do together.” He pauses again and gestures vaguely with his hands. He tilts his head significantly, and says again, “ _Together_.”

A dozen looks cross Aziraphale’s face at once – shock, intrigue, surprise, dismay, happiness, disgust – almost faster than Crowley can follow them all. Before he can settle on one, Crowley leans towards him.

“Remember the oysters,” he says, and raises an eyebrow.

There is something like hope, and a little like the promises of a fire kindling in Aziraphale’s face. The muscles tense in his jaw, and he glances up, then around the room, as if considering.

He speaks, very softly.

“I don’t suppose…” and trails off.

Crowley leans closer, eager, face open and ready to listen.

“I mean, I don’t suppose that we should be married first?” Aziraphale says, vaguely. His face contorts in shock, realising what he has just said, and he quickly glances at Crowley, whose expression has already gone through shock and straight to outright mockery.

Aziraphale raises his hands in an attempt to placate him, to hold off the – hours? days? months? – of ranting that he knows will ensue, but Crowley is already on his feet, gesticulating wildly and working his way through the vowel sounds.

“Oh, ohhhh, uh, uhhhh, right, so-“

“No, darling-“

“Errr, so I’m just going to _walk_ into a _church_ -“

“Dear, please-“

“-dress probably lighting on fire-“

Aziraphale blinks and files ‘dress’ away for later.

“-‘yes, err, excuse me holy person, could you please join me and my _ethereal boyfriend_ here because we really want to know what sex is like for humans? But don’t mention it to Her upstairs or we’ll both be in trouble!’”

Aziraphale closes his eyes and settles back into the sofa, and knows that he’s not going to hear the last of this. Possibly ever.

He reaches out for the nearest wine bottle.


End file.
